


Premier Danseur

by kawaiibossAssSwagbitch420



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Dirty Talk, Eventual Smut, Flirting, M/M, Pining, are they ghouls or humans in this? i have no idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawaiibossAssSwagbitch420/pseuds/kawaiibossAssSwagbitch420
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renji is a dancer and Shuu is a pervert</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this lovely piece of Renji booty by grasparv on the tumblrs.](http://grasparv.tumblr.com/post/128188574819/yomosprincess-im-so-sorry-i-read-tutu-and-my-head) Go give them love and tell them they draw nice butts.

Music wafts through the air like a fog, lights dimming and voices hushing to a soft silence. The maestro takes the stage, giving a small bow before turning to strike up the band. 

Tsukiyama shifts in his balcony seat. He's almost uninterested as the _corps de ballet_ prance and flit onto stage in their opening number. Sweet melodies, a graceful _adagio_ that combines through the _troup_ like a wave. They're smaller than the dancers normally on stage, fresh graduates from the company making a marvelous debut. The _Prima Ballerina_ sets herself in the center as the other dancers fall back and disappear. There's a small applause as they leave, and Tsukiyama can almost hear the way the girls giggle and sigh with relief backstage. 

And so the _Prima_ dances, light tones shifting and swaying in tune with her body. She's alone on stage, center of attention, and her eyes slide closed softly as she lifts her arms high over her head. 

His heart jumps when the music suddenly changes, a _danseur_ practically storming onto the stage. The mood shifts and the lights on stage turn dark, almost a bloody red. He watches the man approach the female dancer as their _pas de deux_ begins. 

And Tsukiyama is _mesmerized._

A strong jaw, features painted and sparkling in a fine feathered pattern. The _danseur_ watches his partner with careful eyes as he lifts her from her feet, her torso covering his broad chest for only a moment. The muscles in his legs flex and roll as he leaps, graceful _plié_ stretching his calf muscles. 

But as he turns to stretch out a limber leg, to face the girl and complete the transformation from princess to swan, Tsukiyama nearly chokes on his own breath. 

A deliciously firm ass, just the profile, stretching the black fabric of his tights taut. His jaw nearly drops. 

He glances into the crowd once before exiting, stage right, and Tsukiyama only has a moment to catch the serene features. How masculine and stoic he seems, unaffected by the praise of the audience. 

Tsukiyama files through his knowledge of _Swan Lake,_ tries to recall when or if the sorcerer ever makes a return. He tears open his program as the scene changes without any regard for the events on stage. In the dim light of his family's private box seating, he skims through the acts, but sees no evidence of return. 

He flips the paper over to a list of names, the members of the _troup._

_Premier Danseur: Yomo Renji._

He traces his fingers over the name over and over again as the dance continues, waiting for Yomo Renji's return. 

And his mind wanders, trying to recapture the elegance of Yomo on stage. The stretch and strain of his _perfect_ muscles, his tall and lean figure. He feels arousal tingle all the way to the tips of his toes, makes his ass clench and his balls ache. Thank goodness he'd attended alone tonight. 

The theater turns dark once more, that same shade of crimson as before, and Tsukiyama's heart flutters with glee. The large _danseur_ jumps into view, face still painted, eyes sharp and predatory. He's deep in the role, and that somehow excites Tsukiyama even more. 

He watches, enraptured as Yomo twists and turns with grace, how his thighs quiver as he pops up on his toes. Hands that softly brace a dancer in position, Tsukiyama can see the way his fingers dip into the meat of her thighs. 

He wonders if Yomo might feel inclined to give him the same treatment. Digs his fingers into Tsukiyama's flesh until he bleeds purple and blue flowers beneath his skin. Or if he'd use his nails, rather. Pierce the flesh of his back as they rock against each other, slowly, kindling a sweet burn between the two bodies. 

Yomo smiles suddenly, an evil booming of laughter echoing through the theater. Tsukiyama can feel it slide against his skin, wonders if his lips would feel as silken. 

There's more side steps, more peaks and teasing glances of those beautiful buttocks, firm and delicate all at once. Tsukiyama feels his breath hitching as he leans closer in his seat, how his groin presses against his pants. Uncomfortably warm, his fingers stretch out his collar, a thin layer of sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat. He wants Yomo to lick it off of him. 

He must be a symphony of the senses, Tsukiyama thinks. Bold muscles beneath tender skin, how he must smell of sweat and talcum. What would he taste like? Like the nylon that sticks to his skin? The wine that must be waiting for him in his dressing room? 

His head is swimming and he almost doesn't notice when the ballet ends, Yomo defeated and the remaining on-stage cast taking a bow. The curtain closes and then reopens, the entirety of the _troup_ standing hand in hand and bowing. 

On the right of the _Prima Ballerina_ stands Yomo Renji. Deadpan, yet a sense of pride in his features. Tsukiyama sees the way the muscles in his forearm cord as he bows with the rest of the dancers. 

And it's over. The curtain closes, and the audience begins to rise and exit. Tsukiyama's mouth goes dry. This can't be the end of this. 

So he wanders away, trying to find that secret passage that leads backstage. He goes mostly unnoticed. Many from the audience shuffle about backstage, parents of the young girls from the _corps de ballet_ bustling about. Kissing soft, baby-fat cheeks and passing around bouquets of flowers. He grabs one sitting unattended on a table and continues walking, _searching._

He glances into changing rooms, but seems to have a difficult time finding the one he needs. It seems like he finally makes his way to the very last room in the hall. Steels his breathing before poking his head in. 

And there he is. 

Leaning over his changing table, cotton swabs rubbing makeup from his face, that firm ass on perfect display in his nylon tights. His eyes still dark, still focused, like he's not yet come down from the high of performing. He doesn't notice Tsukyama at first, but eventually sniffs and eyes him through the mirror. "Can I help you?" Blunt, strong voice. It makes Tsukiyama quake. 

"You were wonderful, Mr. Yomo," he finds himself blurting. At that, Yomo rises and turns toward him. Skeptical. Eyeing the small bouquet of daisies he clutches in his hand. "Truly. Worthy of _Premier danseur._ I've never seen such stage presence." 

Yomo nods once, unphased. "You're too kind." 

A moment of silence falls between them, Tsikyama strangely finding himself speechless. Yomo crosses thick arms over his chest, popping an eyebrow and gesturing towards the flowers. "Are those for me, sir?" 

"Oh!" He nearly shoves them against Yomo in his eagerness. "Yes! For you!" 

Yomo accepts them with an unmatched poise, thumbing at the card nestled neatly into the blooms. _"To our lovely Yuuki, Congratulations. Love Mom and Dad._ Did you take this from a girl in the _corps?"_

"I just," Tsukiyama begins, face heating up in embarrassment, _"had_ to meet you. I was... I found myself... _Enchanted._ You were _superbe_." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"My name is Tsukiyama Shuu." He licks his dry lips as Yomo turns to sit the small bouquet on his dresser, eyes roving downward for a selfish glimpse. "The pleasure is all mine, entirely." 

Yomo turns to him once more, his expression still void. Was he pleased? Annoyed? Tsukiyama finds himself fretting, feels his chest compress like it might collapse in on himself. 

"What brings you to my dressing room, Mr. Tsukiyama?" 

Another moment of silence, Tsukiyama trying to regain the confidence that brought him here. 

"Curiosity," he finally answers. 

But the answer doesn't suit Yomo. "What exactly are you curious about?" 

"Exactly how frantic," he asks softly, "is the life of a dancer? Do you find yourself with much free time?" 

He swears he sees Yomo's lip twitch, like he's pinching back a smile. "Not often." 

Tsukiyama watches Yomo shift from one foot to the other, like he's impatient. "Oh," he breathes. "That's too bad." 

"Coincidentally," Yomo adds quickly, "I find myself open tomorrow around noon. Although it's in between rehearsals." 

Tsukiyama wants to tremble at the thought. Yomo sweaty and musky, hair sticking to his head forehead. Or maybe he'd be freshly showered? Warm and pliant and soft against the tips of his fingers.... 

He swallows, throat scratchy, and smiles. "Then perhaps, if you'd care, I might steal a moment of your time?" 

"And your intentions?" Yomo asks, leaning back to sit at the edge of his table. Tsukiyama can see his back muscles shift beneath his shirt, shoulder blades settling as he becomes more comfortable. "Is it to talk of my performance? Or because you find me attractive?" 

A frisson settles in Tsukiyama's chest. He tries to smile, _"Terribly."_

Yomo's eyebrows scrunch together critically, his eyes darting away from Tsukiyama only momentarily as he considers. 

But then, he nods once. Gives Tsukiyama the address of a café just down the street, and asks politely if he might leave. He needs to change, and would like to get home to sleep. 

And Tsukiyama smiles brightly, elated, and nearly skips back toward the exit. He aches and vibrates all over. And he dreams of sinewy legs that night, of silk and moans and a wet heat.


	2. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Tsukiyama," Yomo says suddenly. 
> 
> Tsukiyama snaps away from his fantasies. "Yes? Mr. Yomo?" 
> 
> "You seem distracted. Am I keeping you?" 
> 
> "No, no!" It's louder than he'd meant, so he clears his throat--regains his composure. "I'm so sorry. I was.... _distracted."_

Tsukiyama arrives at the café almost too early, the waitresses just now sitting out the lunch menu's and changing the special on the board. He smiles kindly and takes a seat on the patio, in a wicker chair nestled toward the back. He can watch the sidewalk from here, and he tries not to bounce in his seat as he waits for Yomo's arrival. 

It's almost uncomfortable, the anticipation. His periwinkle button down suddenly seems too small, too constricting, the heel of his Oxfords clacking against the pavement. He can only hope Yomo doesn't notice, hopes his enthusiasm doesn't get the better of him. He can't scare him away, not like all the others. 

But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't overjoyed. Yomo agreed to see him, some pervert that wandered into his changing room. He wonders if this happens often, if the man is only _humoring_ him. 

Whatever Yomo is doing, Tsuikyama can only feel blessed it's happening to him. 

His heart suddenly thrums to life when a shock of silver hair bobs in the crowd. Yomo watches the pavement in front of him as he walks, long legs hidden torturously in faded jeans. With a gym bag slung over his shoulder, he looks like a model leaving a shoot. Tsukiyama watches him enter the shop and head for the patio, like he knows exactly where Tsukiyama is sitting. 

He approaches, and Tsuikyama stands politely. Yomo nods at him and takes a seat, the wicker chair creaking beneath his weight. Tsukiyama sits opposite of him, watching him. Eyes tracing the neckline of his scoop neck tee, which offers a savory glimpse of his clavicle. 

Yomo doesn’t smile, only closes his eyes softly as he sits his bag down with a muffled _thud._ "Thank you for inviting me out, sir," he says, his voice bland. But it's deep and warm and Tsukiyama feels like he's drowning, lost in the senses Yomo has to offer. 

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you." Tsukiyama takes a deep breath, his fingers twitching in his lap. He can smell his cologne from where he sits, the rich musk that has his stomach coiling pleasantly. "May I buy you something to drink? Or possibly something to eat?" 

"Black coffee would be fine." 

He motions over the waitress and places their order--two black coffees. His eyes, however, never leave Yomo. How he stares into the distance, storm cloud eyes ethereal--almost calming. The waitress hurries away and Yomo glances back toward Tsukiyama. Eyes flitting downward to his lap. 

"I returned those flowers," Yomo begins suddenly, "to the little girl you stole them from." 

Tsukiyama flinches at that. His face splitting with an embarrassed smile. "Oh! Oh, good! I was worried about that. I... I don't know what I was thinking when I did that." 

"You wanted to impress me." It's not a question. Yomo knows his intentions, can read him like a book. 

"I wanted," Tsukiyama amends, leaning forward in his seat, "to be _sweet."_ He huffs, face turning red. "Although stealing from a child probably wasn't the best way to go about that." 

"Probably not." 

The waitress sits their drinks in front of them, breaking the tension. They murmur their gratitude and sip from their cups. Tsukiyama watches Yomo from over the rim of his cup, they way he slides his eyes shut, his throat bobbing as he swallows slowly. An appreciative hum rumbling in his chest. 

Tsukiyama wants to press his ear to that chest, listen to the air squeeze from his lungs and his heat hammering. 

"Mr. Tsukiyama," Yomo says suddenly. 

Tsukiyama snaps away from his fantasies. "Yes? Mr. Yomo?" 

"You seem distracted. Am I keeping you?" 

"No, no!" It's louder than he'd meant, so he clears his throat--regains his composure. "I'm so sorry. I was.... _distracted."_

Yomo doesn't say anything, just nods like he understands and finishes off his coffee. 

"I mean," Tsukiyama breathes, "I was lost in thought. I'm sorry. I should pay you more attention. But, forgive me, you're _quite_ distracting." 

Yomo seem amused by this, his brows twitching like he's surprised. Tsukiyama suddenly feels bold, Yomo breathing life and vitality into his tired lungs. He cradles his head in his palm and thinks of ways to make Yomo squirm. 

"You were brilliant last night," he begins, his voice reschooled to something drawling, something inviting. _"Vraiment exquis._ Is this your first season as _Premier Danseur?"_

"This is my third season," he answers. Yomo leans down in his seat slightly, finally becoming a bit more comfortable. His leg shakes as he watches Tsukiyama. "I've danced with the company since I graduated. I started training at seven." 

A lifetime of dancing, of muscle memory, of strength training and mastering balance. Tsukiyama nearly salivates. 

"Do you often find yourself in the company of a fan?" he asks. "I imagine you must be quite popular." 

"Not particularly." 

His lips flinch, otherwise he remains passive. "That's hard to imagine. You're attractive, talented--" 

"Most find me abrasive." 

"Ah, they just can't appreciate the quiet type," he laughs gently. "It's interesting, talking with someone normally so quiet. What they say is always truthful, and to the point. Bluntness can be refreshing." 

At that, Yomo leans forward, elbows resting on the table. His shirt dangles down from his shoulders and Tsukiyama gets a glimpse of a wisp of hair spattered on Yomo's chest. "Then do me the same favor, sir. Be blunt with me." 

Another moment of silence, Tsukiyama can hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. "Last night," he begins, a soft whisper, a reverent secret, "I could not stop staring at you. You are the very _definition_ of beauty, and I'm beside myself just being in your presence." 

He sees Yomo part his lips for a deep breath, can't help but to wonder if he's aching just as much as he is. 

"I'm so attracted to you," he continues, keeping his voice low and steady. "And to be completely honest, my intentions are far from pure." 

Yomo's eyebrows twitch at that, and Tsukiyama swears he sees the exact moment his pupils explode into a black abyss. "I'm happy to hear that," Yomo answers. His voice is smooth and unaffected and it only serves to turn Tsukiyama on even more. 

"Seeing you last night ignited something inside of me that I haven't felt in _years,"_ Tsukiyama nearly growls. "I wanted you right then and there, and I still want you now. Your body is _très belle,_ and I want to know exactly what it's capable of." 

Yomo swallows, his throat bobbing. "You want me?" 

Tsukiyama can't stop himself, lost in the game as Yomo shifts in his seat. _Squirming._ "It's maddening, how much I want you." 

He expects Yomo to stand, to politely decline and leave and that would be the end of it. But instead, Yomo leans in _closer,_ taking Tsukiyama by complete surprise. "Your bluntness is _refreshing,_ Mr. Tsukiyama." A leg bumps against his own under the table, Yomo snatching and grabbing the upper hand instantaneously. "Please. Go on." 

His throat's suddenly dry, he swallows passed broken glass and coughs. Glancing around the patio--they're alone. So he refocuses on Yomo, who is all dark eyes and schooled features. He is patient but not anxious. 

"Tell me what you want, Mr. Tsukiyama." 

"I want," he starts, tentative, "to feel you. And taste you. I want to know how you feel against my tongue, or around my cock." 

"Yes?" 

_"Yes."_ His breath is heavy, fingers curling into his palms. "I want you beneath me, I want to make you squirm and beg for me. I want you wet and messy, and I want to lick you open and fuck you full." 

Yomo purses his lips, brows furrowing. It's almost painful, how Tsukiyama is so needy and Yomo almost robs him of dignity with his indifference. 

"And if I told you I felt the same?" Yomo asks. 

It's nearly enough to crack Tsukiyama completely. 

"Then I'd ask you, 'When and where?'"

And finally, _finally,_ Yomo smiles. Gentle, but his eyes look absolutely predatory. He stands suddenly, and Tsukiyama stands with him--a mechanical reaction. "Tomorrow, I have a _matinee._ You're more than welcome to attend. It ends at two that afternoon." He slings the bag back over his shoulder, taking a step toward Tsukiyama. Leaning in close, he can smell the bitter bite of coffee on his breath. "Wait for me afterwards, then take me home with you."

"Are you certain?"

Yomo's smile widens, lets his lips slide against Tsukiyama's. "I haven't been fucked properly in _months._ And I saw the way you were looking at my ass. You're very bold, sir."

They seal the deal with a kiss, long and heated, and go their separate ways. He leaves Tsukiyama with messy hair, dark needy eyes watching him leave. Eyes drinking in every beautiful movement of his ass as he goes. For the first time in a while, Yomo feels powerful, proud of the way he left an almost-complete stranger weak and aching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we all know that renji is definitely NOT that cool he was probably internally screaming the entire time

**Author's Note:**

> i've never seen Swan Lake, that was purely inspired by the opening scene of Black Swan


End file.
